I agreed to Eragon's plan—idiotic, reckless, and utterly necessary—because sometimes the only way forward is through fire. He and Roran would slip away tonight to hunt the Ra'zac at Helgrind. Percy and Annabeth would stay with the camp; their dragons alone were worth half an army, and while they agreed Eragon's plan was reckless, they understood why he needed to do it.
With the decision made, I left the command tent and walked through the camp.
My NightHawks flanked me like shadows—silent, black-clad, eyes everywhere. They insisted, as always. I let them. Paranoia was the only luxury I could still afford.
The troops were holding. Morale was higher than it had any right to be after a battle that left us bleeding. Men sharpened blades by firelight, Urgals sang low war chants that vibrated through the ground, and women mended armor with steady hands. Laughter drifted from some fires—rare, but real. I knew why.
Percy and Annabeth.
Their dragons alone were worth a legion. Shorai and Furnöst lounged at the camp's edge like living siege engines, wings half-furled, eyes glowing in the dark. Soldiers walked past them with the careful respect one gives a sleeping volcano. Children peeked from tents, whispering about "the sea dragon" and "the storm dragon." Adults told stories of how Percy had drowned an entire legion of Galbatroix's soldiers with a gesture, how Annabeth had turned enemy spellcasters inside out with a single word. Exaggerated, perhaps. But the awe was real.
I stopped at one fire where a group of spearmen were laughing over ale. One noticed me and stood straight. "Lady Nasuada."
I waved him down. "Sit. How is everyone?"
He grinned. "Better than yesterday. Those two Riders... they make you believe we might actually win."
Another nodded. "Percy showed us a trick with water—said it'd help if the trenches flood. Annabeth drew up a whole plan for the eastern flank. We're not just holding anymore. We're fighting."
I let myself smile. "Good. Keep that fire burning."
I moved on, checking commanders next. The prisoner problem gnawed at me. Every city we took meant leaving men behind to guard captives bound by Galbatorix's oath—men who couldn't be trusted to fight for us, couldn't be released to rejoin the Empire. The drain was constant. I spoke with Jörmundur, then Trianna. Solutions were thin. We'd have to keep bleeding garrisons until we found a way to break the oaths or win fast enough that it didn't matter.
Near the herb tents, Angela waited. Her wild curls caught the firelight; she looked like she'd been plotting murder and enjoying it.
"Lady Nasuada," she said, voice lilting. "You look like you've swallowed a lemon."
"The usual," I replied. "Prisoners. Supplies. The small matter of an empire trying to kill us all."
She laughed. "Ever the optimist."
I lowered my voice. "How's Elva faring?"
Angela's eyes gleamed. "Decently well enough, which reminds me, have I berated Eragon for his stupidity in his decision?"
"Not that I believe, but he recently left with Roran to go rescue Roran's fiancée," I replied, waiting for her to explode.
To say the least, I was not disappointed. "Why that little *********, who in their right mind would do that. He's a *********, ********, ******." She continued her tirade for a little longer, in which I heard words I swore I would never want to hear again.
We spoke longer—logistics, wards, poisons for the next push. Angela had ideas. Dark ones. Useful ones. I filed them away.
By the time I left her, the camp was settling. Fires banked low. Sentries paced. Somewhere, Percy and Annabeth were probably still training, or laughing, or planning the next impossible thing.
I walked back to my tent alone, NightHawks trailing like ghosts. The stars were sharp overhead. Tomorrow would bring more blood. Tonight, at least, the Varden slept with hope.
That was something.
Arya's POV
Dawn arrived soft and golden, the light filtering through the branches of the Menoa Tree like a benediction. I rose early, as always, and sought my mother in her chambers beneath the living oak. Islanzadí sat by a crystal window, crown of leaves catching the first rays, her face lined with the weight of centuries. We spoke in low voices of the Varden's needs: grain, arrows, healers, wards strong enough to turn aside Galbatorix's sorcery. She listened, asked sharp questions, and gave orders with the quiet finality of one who had ruled through worse wars than this.
"Take what they need," she said at last. "And watch the new Riders. Their power is wild. See that it serves, not shatters."
I nodded. "I will, Mother."
By midday the camp stirred fully awake. I walked the paths between tents, Folkvír's hooves silent on the packed earth. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and the faint sweetness of elven bread. Laughter drifted from a circle of soldiers near the eastern barricade—bright, unguarded. I followed the sound.
Percy and Annabeth sat among a knot of Varden spearmen and archers, passing a wineskin, trading stories. Percy was mid-tale, gesturing wildly.
"—so I'm hanging off the edge of this cliff, right? There were some enemy sword's men literally trying to eat me, and Annabeth's up top yelling 'Don't fall, Seaweed Brain!' like I had a choice—"
The soldiers roared. One wiped tears from his eyes. Annabeth leaned against Percy's shoulder, smirking. "You did have a choice. You chose to be dramatic."
Percy grinned. "It's my best feature."
I stepped into the circle. Conversation stilled; the men straightened, respectful. Percy noticed me first.
"Arya," he said, lifting the wineskin in salute. "Join the party?"
Annabeth's eyes flicked to mine—sharp, assessing, but not unkind. "Or are you here to drag us back to paperwork?"
I allowed myself a small smile. "Neither. I would spar with you, if you are willing. And practice the ancient language. Oromis has taught you much; My mother would like to see how far."
Percy's grin turned wicked. "You sure? We fight dirty."
"I have lived through worse than dirty," I replied.
Annabeth stood, brushing dirt from her knees. "We're in."
We walked to a wide clearing just beyond the camp's edge, grass worn flat by feet and hooves. Shorai and Furnöst followed at a leisurely pace, wings half-spread, curious. A few villagers trailed us at a distance, whispering.
We began with blades—no magic, no tricks. Percy moved like water; Annabeth like a blade of grass in wind—flexible, precise, deadly. I matched them step for step at first, then faster. Percy laughed when he disarmed with a flick of his wrist.
Annabeth's dagger flashed; I parried, countered, and she blocked with a forearm that felt like iron. We traded blows for nearly an hour—sweat, laughter, corrections. They were better than I expected. Far better. Their reflexes had the elven edge now, but their instincts were wilder, less restrained. They fought like people who had lost too much to lose again.
We shifted to the ancient language.
I spoke first: a simple ward. Percy mirrored it—flawless pronunciation, stronger than I anticipated. Annabeth layered hers with intent, their wards encircling and combining fluidly; the air shimmered. We built shields, shattered illusions, summoned light that danced between us like living fireflies. They had learned most, but still asked sharp questions and pushed boundaries. By late afternoon we were all breathing hard, laughing more than we fought.
We walked into the nearby forest as the sun dipped low. The trees were old, quiet. We found a small glade with a stream and sat on mossy stones. No meat—elves do not eat flesh—but bread, fruit, honeyed nuts. We ate in companionable silence for a while.
Percy broke it first. "So... what do elves do for fun when they're not being perfect?"
I smiled despite myself. "We sing. We shape wood and stone. We remember."
Annabeth leaned back on her elbows. "Remembering sounds nice. We humans spend most of our time trying to forget."
Percy nudged her. "Speak for yourself. I remember every embarrassing thing you've ever said."
She flicked a pebble at him. "And I remember every time you fell into a river trying to look cool."
I watched them—easy, unguarded, utterly themselves. Something in my chest loosened. "You are fortunate," I said quietly. "To have found each other in a world that takes so much."
Percy looked at me—really looked. "Yeah. We are."
Annabeth reached over and squeezed my hand, brief but warm. "You have people too, Arya. More than you think." Then she laughed, "Like Eragon dotting over you all the time!"
The sun sank lower. We talked of small things—favorite foods, worst memories, hopes we rarely voiced. Percy teased me about my "elf ears"; I then reminded him of his own elf ear. Annabeth asked about the oldest songs I knew. I sang one, soft and low, about stars and lost lovers. They listened without mockery.
When full dark fell, we rose. The campfires glowed in the distance like scattered embers.
"Thank you," I said. "For today."
Percy grinned. "Anytime. Just don't go easy on us tomorrow." Annabeth smirked.
"Have a good night," I replied as we headed our separte ways, and for the first time since losing my promised, I was glad to have found a few friends.